Page 11 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Veronica’s eyes alighted on a folded note sitting on the table. It had both their names written on the front of it. Frederick was surprised he had not noticed it earlier. Veronica hurried towards it and unfolded the page. Frederick stood behind her, peering over her shoulder to read the words. He caught a waft of her scent—lavender, perhaps—and for a moment, he was back in his bedchamber with her lips against his own. He forced the thought away. Thinking of that kiss was most definitely not a good idea. Especially when they were locked together in a room.
Again.
“To find the key, you must follow the clues.”
Frederick groaned loudly. He was going to positively murder his grandmother after all this. “That’s it?” he demanded. “That’s all she has to say?” He rolled his eyes. “I have to say, a mere painting competition is beginning to sound rather appealing. I ought to have known it would not be that simple. My grandmother has a flare for the dramatic.”
“Yes,” said Veronica. “So does mine.”
They exchanged a tiny smile. “My grandmother thinks very highly of Lady Hilt,” said Frederick. “They have been friends for most of their lives.”
Veronica nodded in agreement. “I suppose we cannot find it surprising that have such similar traits.” Before Frederick could respond, she marched towards the bookshelf. “Come on. There is little point moping about and cursing at the world, Your Grace. The quicker we find the key, the quicker we can get out of here.” She caught his eye for a brief moment. “Perhaps even manage to get in a bit of painting.”
She pulled out the first book on the shelf. “I assume since we are in the library, the clues are hidden within the books. It would make sense, would it not?”
Frederick grunted in agreement. Reluctantly, he followed her toward the bookshelf and began pulling out the volumes from the other end. “Lady Veronica,” he began tentatively, “I must apologize for—”
“There’s no need to apologize, Your Grace,” she said, too quickly. Clearly, she knew where his apology was going. And clearly, she had no interest in hearing it. But Frederick needed to say it. Strangely, he did want Lady Veronica thinking badly of him for reasons that were not true.
“There is a need to apologize,” he said firmly. “I promised you I would get you safely back to your bedchamber. And I failed to do so.” He kept his eyes on the books, unable to look her way. “That brandy we were drinking must have hit me harder than I anticipated. I had no intention of falling asleep. In any case, I can assure you that nothing untoward took place.”
Veronica looked his way and gave him a small smile. “I know,” she said. “And thank you. I appreciate your apology. Everything is all right. No one knows what happened. They all think I just overslept and you just… well, you just behaved in your usual manner and did not bother to show yourself.”
Frederick chuckled. “Good.”
A frown creased the bridge of Veronica’s nose. “At least, Ithinkthat’s what everyone thinks.”
Frederick raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head dismissively. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. I was just a little on edge this morning, that’s all. I wondered if perhaps me grandmother…” She faded out. “Let’s just find these clues.”
“Very well.” They continued to search for several minutes in silence, pulling books from the shelves and rifling through the pages. “So you really are an artist?” Frederick found himself asking. “You’ve not just been wrangled into this competition by my grandmother?”
“Well, Iwaswrangled into it,” Veronica admitted, flipping through the pages of a book, and then sliding it back into the shelf. “But I am an artist, yes. Or rather, I paint. I am not sure I really ought to call myself an artist.”
Frederick frowned. “Why not?”
Veronica shrugged. “My work has never been on display. I have never had a commission. I have never even been properly trained. I just taught myself.”
“That doesn’t mean you are not an artist,” Frederick said firmly. “Far from it.”
Veronica did not answer at once. “Here!” She produced a scrap of paper from within one of the books. The letter ‘D’ was all that was written on it. She sat the page on the table, along with the book. Then she returned to the shelf and continued her search.
“What do you paint?” asked Frederick curiously. He had not realized he was in the presence of someone with an actual interest in the subject so close to his heart. He had assumed the only thing all these young ladies were interested in was becoming the Duchess of Brownwood.
“Landscapes, mostly,” said Veronica. “There is just something about the natural world that draws me to it. Makes me want to capture every piece of it on my canvas. I know it’s dreadfully bold of me. I know as a woman, I ought to just paint still lifes. Domestic scenes. Perhaps if I did, I would not struggle so much to find a sponsor. But those things just do not capture my attention. It is the world around me I wish to paint. I have always been inspired by the work of Lorrain. Do you know it?” Before Frederick could answer in the affirmative, she barreled on. “I love the way he expresses such perfection and beauty in the natural world. But that is not quite what I wish to paint. Because the world is not perfect, is it? Rather it is—” She stopped suddenly and looked up at him, her cheeks suddenly flushed. “Goodness. Do forgive me, Your Grace. My thoughts just ran away from me for a moment there. Sometimes when I begin speaking of such things, I find it difficult to stop.”
“Do not apologize, My Lady,” Frederick said hurriedly. “It is a pleasure to find someone with an interest in the subject.” He nodded for her to continue. “Tell me more about your work.”
Now, Veronica looked almost shy. Vulnerable, as though she were opening herself up for criticism, putting a part of herself on display. Frederick understood that. Even now, at the age of seven-and-twenty, with two decades of training behind him, he still found it difficult to speak openly about his own work. But he realized that he wanted to hear about Veronica Caster’s painting. Quite desperately in fact. He stepped away from the bookshelf and leaned up against the table, waiting patiently for her to speak.
She looked at him curiously, and Frederick could tell she was surprised at the shift in his cold demeanor. “Well,” she said finally, cautiously, “as I said, I do not believe there is perfection in nature. It is messy and uncultivated. Imperfectly perfect.”
Frederick felt a faint smile flicker on his lips.Imperfectly perfect. He liked that phrase.
“It is the small details I wish to capture in my art,” Veronica continued. “Those imperfections. The wildness. The way we have so little control over it. It is what I most love about nature.”
“I would like to see some of your work,” Frederick found himself saying.
